In this delightful essay collection that reads like a memoir Diane Radford draws the reader into the enchanting world of her parents -- her mother Margery, and her long-suffering father Sidney. Margery had a way with words -- she was never lost for them. Recalling her mum's unique turns of phrase, Diane found herself beginning her own sentences with "as Margery would say," followed by one of her mother's pithy comments. She never realized how much her mother differed from other mothers until she began to quote her, and listeners responded with either a quizzical stare or a peal of laughter. Diane mistakenly presumed everyone had a mother who would demonstrate the Charleston in the middle of doing dishes -- suds flying across the kitchen -- or recite poetry on a walk along the shore. Dr. Radford compiled these "Margeryisms," and her essays recount the adventures of the Radford family and the circumstances in which the Margeryisms were let loose upon the world. At times laugh-out-loud-funny, at times poignant, these essays transport the reader to the times and places when Margery's saying would stop all other activity in a room. The coastal town of Troon, in Ayrshire, Scotland forms the backdrop for many of the memories. Mrs. Radford had a wanderlust that left her unsettled; hence, she and Sid moved frequently -- eight homes in all in Troon. This book in divided into parts according to where they were living at the time. The reader happily joins the Radfords on their peripatetic around Troon and shares in walks on the beach; feeding the birds; golf on the narrowest fairways between banks of yellow broom; and the animal adventures of the Radford family. These reminiscences of her childhood revealed to Diane that she was altogether blessed -- not just her cotton socks. The reader will be too. Bless Your Little Cotton Socks Beyond the Quirky Sayings of My Eccentric Scottish Mum By Diane Radford AuthorHouse Copyright © 2017 Diane Radford All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-5246-5257-9 Contents Introduction, ix, Part One: Hunter Crescent, 1, But Mistinguett is Dead, 3, That Dog Cost Twenty Guineas, 8, The Kittens Are in the Oven Under a Low Gas, 11, We've Arrived, and to Prove it, We're Here, 13, Have a Chitter-Bite, 15, The Animal Must Roam Free, 18, A Golden Treasury of Verse, 21, Reading Love Letters, 25, I'm Taking Some Brandy to the Guinea Pigs, 27, There's a Grave Danger You'll Live, 29, Part Two: Bentinck Drive, 33, Worse Things Happen At Sea, 34, Margery on Wheels, 38, The General's Rooms, 42, Wee Sleekit Cow'rin Tim'rous Beastie, 46, Bond ... James Bond, 51, Fireballs in my Eucharist, 54, What Did Your Last Servant Die Of?, 58, They're Knot, 60, Give the Child Some Laudanum, 65, An Irish Mess, 67, The Open Championship, 69, The Mother Formerly Known as Margery, 72, A Pause for Silent Prayer, 75, Dodds Coach Trip, 78, The Things You See When You Don't Have Your Gun, 81, Gin a Body, Meet a Body, 84, Part Three: Wilson Avenue, 89, The Skelington, 90, Bonnets Over the Windmill, 93, A Chance to Remember, 95, Part Four: Marine View Court, 129, Taxi-Parade, 130, There Was a War On, 132, Part Five: Sandilands, 137, The Sleeping Warrior, 139, Patter-Merchant, 140, A Unit of Measurement, 143, Funny Ha-Ha or Funny Peculiar, 145, Part Six: Dallas Place, Princes Square, and Westbank, 149, Elegant Sufficiency, 151, Old Buggerlugs, 153, Bless Your Little Cotton Socks, 159, Epilogue: The Bench, 165, Acknowledgements, 167, About the Author, 169, Endorsements, 171, CHAPTER 1 Part One Hunter Crescent Margery and Sidney's first home in Troon (and mine, too) was a brick ranch house that stood beside the lane connecting Hunter Crescent to Dundonald Road. A tall brick wall divided our back garden from the lane, but a large wooden gate allowed entry. Pass through, and you would see to the right a vegetable patch containing rhubarb and gooseberries. The leaves of the rhubarb unfurled to provide cover, an exciting, if grubby, hiding place when I was still small enough. Sometimes I'd eat the gooseberries right off the bushes, not minding their tartness and prickly skin. Rimming the expanse of lawn, on the left, was the luxuriant copper beech hedge that separated our property from the neighbors' to the rear. In the center of the grass was a low sand pit, the walls about eight inches high. My next-door neighbor William and I would make sand castles and play fort, sometimes bringing out soldiers from our respective toy boxes. The other edge of the garden abutted the burn, from which water voles would wander into the garden. It was the best burn for sticklebacks and frogspawn. The windowsill in the kitchen was home to a legion of sentry-like jam jars, containing frogs in various phases of metamorphosis. On the crescent side of the house, a low wall divided the rose beds from the sidewalk. It was on that low wall that I would stand, looking towards Wilson Ave